“Anybody’d think you did,” muttered the boy.
The third man went out on a long fly to center field, and Harvard trotted in to bat.
“If Harvard loses this game,” said the boy, “it’ll break her record. She ain’t lost one this year. That’s Greene going to bat. He ain’t much good at hittin’; he generally strikes out.”
Greene sustained his reputation, and a tall youth, whom Mr. Robinson was informed was Billings, the left-fielder, made a hit to short-stop and reached first by a bad throw. Harvard filled the bases in that inning and the excitement became intense. A base-hit would bring in the desired two runs. But the Princeton pitcher wound himself into knots and untangled himself abruptly and threw wonderful balls, and the umpire, a short, round, little man with a deep voice, yelled “Strike!” “Strikes!” “Striker’s out!”
“Aw, thunder!” lamented Mr. Robinson’s companion. “That’s two gone. Ain’t that mean?”
Mr. Robinson, sitting on the edge of his seat, clutching his cane desperately with both hands, nodded. Over on the other stands, across the diamond, they were standing up and cheering grimly, imploringly. The Harvard short-stop took up his bat and faced the pitcher. Back of second and third bases the coaches were yelling loudly:
“On your toes, Charlie, on your toes! Go down with his arm! Now you’re off! Whoa-a-a! Look out for second-baseman! All right! He won’t throw it! Whoa-a-a!”
“Strike!” called the umpire.
“Aw, gee!” muttered the boy.